


And So We Fade

by alicephantomwise



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types, Merlin (BBC)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-02
Updated: 2010-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicephantomwise/pseuds/alicephantomwise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The servants tended to look away when it came to Arthur and his sorcerer (to Merlin and his king).</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So We Fade

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: flangst, future fic, minor character death, incomprehensible physics, and the coin thing is shamelessly stolen from T.H. White (with my deepest apologies).

“Where,” said Arthur in what he considered to be a very rational tone given the circumstances, “are my chambers?”

Merlin held out his palm. “What is this?”

“ _Er_ ,” Arthur said, because this wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. “A coin?”

“Is that a question?” Merlin said.

“ _No_ , it is not a question,” Arthur said, fingers curling around Merlin’s thin wrist, and it was strange, touching him like this, because these days Merlin was like a bird, there one moment and gone the next. No one would know where he was for days until Arthur would stumble across him in a garden that had never been there before, and then he’d plague Arthur for hours, whirling into his chambers at three o’clock in the morning with his face bright and his hair wild, demanding that Arthur come and see if they could enchant a carpet to fly.

Arthur squeezed Merlin’s wrist a bit harder, just to memorize the feel of those fine bones warm in his hand. “No,” he said, watching Merlin’s face light up even though it was impossible, really, because people didn’t glow like that. “A question, for example, would be ‘ _what have you done with my chambers?’._ ”

“This is a coin,” Merlin said dismissively, trying to tug his hand from Arthur’s, but Arthur missed this, having Merlin here, feeling the skittering of his pulse under Arthur’s skin, and he wasn’t going to let go, even if some days he felt like Merlin wanted to run away and never come back.

“But you prefer to fight with a sword,” Merlin said, swinging from one ridiculous conversation to a possibly even more ridiculous one.

“Is there a point to your nattering on?” Arthur said. “Because I’ve just sat through five hours of council meetings and I thought that I’d like to have a long soak tonight, except when I sent Bran to go ready my bath, he came back in tears because he’d convinced himself that he’d lost my chambers. And now you’re drawing some insane metaphor that makes no sense.”

Merlin looked extremely disapproving, which was really rich, considering that of the two of them, he wasn’t the one whose chambers had gone missing. “This is not a metaphor,” he said sternly. “Pay attention.”

“Dear God,” said Arthur fervently.

“And give me my wrist back, _please_ ,” Merlin said, and it was a bit slow because Arthur didn’t let go immediately and Merlin didn’t pull away all that fast and missing chambers and feverish rambling aside, Arthur felt dizzy up here, watching the sun fade, the skies deep red and threaded with gossamer, fading sunshine. And Merlin’s side was pressed up against his, and Merlin had always been warmer and brighter than the sun.

Merlin leaned over the balcony, and he was wearing those terrible trousers, Arthur thought in despair, the ones Arthur could’ve sworn he’d now burned _twice_ , except they kept having inexplicable resurrections and so Arthur had finally capitulated because he might be king of Camelot, but reincarnated trousers were out of his league. Merlin was wearing the cloak Arthur had had made for him, red and gold like the sky, and Arthur reached out absently, stroked the rich velvets and thought of Merlin, pale against white sheets, wrapped in Arthur’s colors.

Merlin’s voice cut through Arthur’s lazy thoughts, knife-sharp. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it?” he said, but his tone was alarmingly dark. “It’s not much; I couldn’t even buy a slice of bread with this. It’s not good for anything, really – you’d need ten times this amount and then maybe you could go to bed with a full belly tonight.

“And yet,” Merlin said, voice _so_ soothing, as if he were singing a lilting, slightly creepy lullaby, “you could kill a man with this – _just_ this.”

Merlin’s hair was so dark against his skin and his eyes were hooded with shadows and Merlin was loved and beloved, except there were moments like these when the smiles faded and all that was left was this, a bit of magic and a bit of madness, and Arthur was standing on a balcony hundreds of meters above the ground with the most powerful sorcerer Camelot had ever known.

He’d never been scared of Merlin. And he wouldn’t fear him now.

Arthur very deliberately reached out, took Merlin’s sleeve between his fingers. He felt like this nowadays, like he had to ground Merlin because if he let him go, Merlin might float away because he didn’t quite belong here anymore. And he thought that Merlin _wanted_ to float away except Arthur would never be able to bear it and so he would never, never let go.

“Can you?” Arthur said pleasantly. “Well, give it here, then, I’ve just the man in mind.”

Merlin’s eyes lowered a bit, in that shifty way that meant he thought he should pull away from Arthur but didn’t want to, in that shifty way that meant that he still didn’t realize that his face was a language Arthur had long ago learned to read because he didn’t want to miss the meaning in Merlin’s smiles and the sweetness in the hollows of his jaw.

“I’m making a _point_ ,” Merlin said, sounding deeply injured.

“Get _on_ with it, then,” Arthur said, “because after you make your hideously pointless point, you and I are going on a stroll to see if we can track down these elusive chambers of mine.”

Merlin’s mouth looked torn between a smile and a frown, and he settled on a bizarre fusion of the two, which was just pathetic confusion. “You’ve ruined the mood,” he said petulantly. “The _point_ is,” he said, and held his hand – the one not in Arthur’s hold – out, the coin glittering between his fingers. “If I let go this coin, it will fall.”

“I was actually aware of that,” Arthur said.

“It will fall and its acceleration will be entirely due to gravity, discounting things like wind and air resistance.” Merlin glanced at Arthur and Arthur made a spectacularly expressive face that was meant to convey that he was bored to death and that he’d lived through a couple of arrows in the shoulder and a nasty sword to the stomach, but he wasn’t sure this lecture wasn’t going to bleed him of the will to live.

Merlin made an equally expressive face back that threatened to turn Arthur into a frog.

“And?” Arthur prodded because Merlin had fallen silent and looked sort of comical, hand extended, mouth drawn in tight.

“How fast do you think this coin will be moving when it reaches the bottom?” Merlin said. “If I dropped this now, it would take thirty seconds to reach the ground.”

“No it wouldn’t,” said Arthur. “We’re not _that_ high up.”

Merlin smiled, but it was a sad smile, and when he spoke, the words were worn, like they were running together because he was very, very tired: “The problem, Arthur—” and _God_ how Arthur loved his name on Merlin’s lips, and how many times had he tried to provoke Merlin into saying his name the way he had years ago when he wasn’t supposed to, when ‘ _Arthur_ ’ meant disobedience? And now that ‘Arthur’meant love and things Arthur wanted so desperately, Merlin didn’t say it anymore, and ‘sire’ always sounded like the harshest of curses– “is that you’ve never realized how very high up you are.”

“You’re not making any _sense_ ,” Arthur said, because Merlin wasn’t, but the thing about Merlin was that he always made sense and Arthur could read Merlin’s face, more familiar than his own in a mirror, but these days Merlin spoke in languages that Arthur didn’t think existed until Merlin created them, intricate and tortuous and meaningless until it was too late.

Merlin turned his face to the horizon, to the last of the sun glimmering weakly through the clouds. “It will take thirty seconds for this coin to reach the ground. And in thirty seconds, Lord Alwyn – who has been strolling around the courtyard for the past hour – will be standing right where this coin will fall.” His voice was flat now, and if Arthur hadn’t been standing here with him, he might’ve thought that Merlin was talking to himself, rambling like a loon. “The coin’s final velocity would be enough to shatter his skull. It would kill him instantly; he’d not feel any pain.”

Arthur released Merlin’s hand slowly, slow as a dream. Merlin looked at him unhappily, shadows slipping into the hollows of his face, eyelashes a dark contrast against his pale, pale skin, and Arthur knew how those eyelashes felt, delicate against his thumb, and he knew how Merlin’s face went bright when he smiled, how his skin turned gold when they curled up on thick rugs in front of the fire. He knew how fine Merlin’s fingers were, soft because he’d always been a terrible servant. He knew all that, except that hardened set to Merlin’s jaw, _that_ – he’d never seen before.

Arthur’s voice was hoarse: “If Alwyn died, it would clear the way for peaceful negotiations. His son is not ambitious; he will agree to all of our terms and he will do so gratefully.”

Merlin was studying the coin – dull now that the sun had stripped it of its shine – in his hand, still extended past the balcony. “Alwyn is no friend to Camelot. He sits down to feast with you but he has already mobilized half his army. In another two months, he will march upon Camelot. You will defeat him in a blaze of glory and Camelot will prosper like it hasn’t for two centuries.”

“But,” Arthur said, and he shut his eyes and listened.

“But,” Merlin agreed softly. “But you will lose men. Knights. Gwain, maybe. Tristan. Men you’ve never seen before, from the lower town, those who march under Pendragon because they love you and because they love Camelot. They’ll die because they’re better at wielding ploughs than swords.”

Arthur thought of Alwyn, burly and crafty, drinking too much wine and making bawdy jokes and then retiring drunkenly to his guest chambers where he pulled out maps and wrote down strategy. He thought of Tristan, so very young and filled with dreams of quests and a maiden across the sea. And Gwain, happy and brimming with life and the nameless faces, the faceless names that blurred together, men that he had never known, men who he would never know.

“And if Alwyn died,” Arthur said again.

“Yes,” Merlin said, still not looking up, and Arthur wished he would, wished he’d look up and he could sort out right from wrong in Merlin’s eyes, Merlin in his shabby trousers and rich cloak, wearing Arthur’s colors like he belonged to him. He wished Merlin would say something, that Merlin would stop fading away because one day soon Arthur would look up, would reach out, and Merlin would slip through his fingers like a ghost.

Arthur’s voice sounded strange to his own ears, childish: “How long have you been standing up here, Merlin?”

“Two hours,” said Merlin, and he was young too, younger than Arthur, young with wide blue eyes. And Arthur belonged to Camelot but Merlin – well, Merlin belonged to him. “Alwyn likes his daily jaunt around the courtyard. He’s studying the training habits of the knights, trying to get a look at the armory, get an idea of what you have on hand, to see if he’ll be able to take you by surprise.”

“And we’ll win the battle?” Arthur said unsteadily.

“Of course,” Merlin said deferentially, and he still wasn’t looking at Arthur.

Arthur nodded absently. “So Alwyn will die, today or in two months. And Tristan – and Gwain—”

“Yes,” Merlin said, his voice fading into the wind. The wind swept through Merlin’s hair and Arthur looked at him, really looked, and it was hard because he knew what Merlin looked like, knew what he felt like, what he tasted like. And this, trying to look for something new, it almost hurt because Arthur didn’t want to find anything new, because finding something new meant that he was losing Merlin, one centimeter at a time.

Merlin had stood here for two hours, every day for the past few days – maybe the past two weeks. He’d stood here with a coin, with life and death in his hands and he was so young, and it ached to think of this burden on Merlin’s shoulders. It was stupid, probably, because Merlin had all this power that Arthur would never have, because Merlin could take care of himself and Arthur too.

It was easy, really. He could save so many if he just drew closer, behind Merlin. If he just curved his hands around Merlin’s shoulder, around his hip, if he just pressed his mouth to the warm sweet skin of Merlin’s neck, to the bump of his spine. If he said _drop it, then_.

And this was what the magic was for. For destiny, for Camelot, for _Arthur_.

And if it made Merlin a murderer, well.

But Merlin had locked himself up in his old room for three days when Morgana had died. He’d grown so thin that Arthur had been able to see through his skin when he’d come out and curled into Arthur’s arms and spilled secrets that he’d worn like thorns in his skin for years, and Arthur had touched him, had held him tight and close because he couldn’t bear the thought of Merlin staggering under the weight of the world.

Merlin was many things, but never this still creature on a balcony, cutting the delicate threads of life.

“You don’t have foresight,” Arthur said.

Merlin laughed, sharp and bitter. “I don’t need foresight.”

“Give me the coin,” Arthur said.

And _finally_ Merlin looked at him, the utter stillness of his face cut through by horror, and Merlin stepped back, skin flushed, and Arthur had never thought of him as tall, but Merlin shrank now, from sorcerer to just Merlin, to the boy who’d looked up with shining eyes at Arthur as the crown was placed on his head, who’d kissed his adoration onto Arthur’s ribs, who murmured stories into his ear when Arthur took ill and then swore to never tell anyone that Arthur was twenty-five and king and liked Merlin to tell him bedtime stories.

“No, Arthur,” Merlin said helplessly. “This is – this is what I’m meant to do. Not you.”

Arthur held out his hand and said again, “Give me the coin.”

They stood there for what felt like years. Arthur could’ve sworn that three winters had passed, each colder than the previous, could’ve sworn that Merlin aged one hundred years before him. But then Merlin was pressing the coin into his palm and Arthur shuddered because Merlin’s touch was what made the long days tolerable.

“Arthur,” Merlin said brokenly.

Arthur stared at the coin, warm in his palm. His father’s likeness was carved onto it, Uther as a gentle and loving lord because Camelot always remembered her kings more fondly than she should’ve. And Uther – Uther would’ve let Merlin do it, would’ve let Merlin kill Alwyn because it was easy and tidy. He would’ve killed one man, one who could never claim innocence, to save hundreds who could. And Arthur – it made sense. Gwain was worth one hundred of Alwyn.

“You don’t have the foresight,” Arthur said again, rougher. “You don’t know.”

Merlin looked as broken as he sounded, and Arthur wondered if they had fallen in love or if they were just – falling into beautiful little pieces. “Alwyn will march on Camelot. And you will win. Maybe not Gwain, maybe Gareth. Maybe you won’t lose anyone. Maybe—”

“‘Maybe’ isn’t enough,” Arthur said, and he cast the coin away, down between them. “It’s not right. If I kill Alwyn, then what? The Mercians, next? The witches in Avalon? And where does it stop? If I start kill Alwyn because he _might_ march on Camelot – according to my sorcerer who doesn’t actually have foresight and whose most ambitious task seems to be playing hide-and-seek with my chambers – then when do I stop? What about the chambermaid who spreads those rumors about Gwen and Lancelot? Or that servant boy who stole—”

“It’s not—” Merlin said desperately, and he drew closer and it was like stepping from winter into summer, and Merlin was clutching at Arthur’s robes now— “Stop it. You’re not _like that_ , Arthur, that’s not – you’re _good_ , and if I’d thought – if I’d thought that you – but you _wouldn’t_ , and I’d never love anyone – you’re _my_ king,” he said, and it was all unintelligible, but Arthur wasn’t listening anyway, because Merlin’s hands were careful on Arthur’s face and that was better than anything else.

Merlin leaned close, breath warm against Arthur’s face. “Anyway, it’s my job. I’m the one who has to do it.”

Merlin’s eyelashes were fluttering madly, like he was fighting to keep his eyes open but this close, he also wanted a kiss, but then the last of Merlin’s words processed and Arthur’s fingers slid around Merlin’s upper arms and held on too tightly.

“ _You?_ ” Arthur demanded. “God, you’re an _idiot_. You wouldn’t want a king who thought he could just kill off anyone who stood in his way and then you think the answer is that _you_ should commit murder? I saw you cry when I shot down that vicious, man-eating vulture last year!”

Merlin managed to go limp and hunched his shoulders at the same time, the way he did when he felt embarrassed. “I did not, I’d got dirt in my eye for the three hundredth time, and it only ate one man and that was that troll who lived under that bridge and so that barely counts. And do you really want me to inform your kingdom that you like me to tell you the same bedtime stories that I used to tell the children in Ealdor?”

Arthur cupped Merlin’s jaw and forced his face up. Merlin’s forehead was tight with dismay and Arthur smoothed at the deep line etched between Merlin’s eyebrows, willing the burdens away. Merlin relaxed a bit, and this was all very comfortable and familiar except for the fact that Merlin had almost committed murder approximately five minutes ago and they were standing on a balcony on a deceivingly high tower and Arthur had just made a decision that he might deeply rue in a few months.

“You never understand,” Arthur said, low and urgent. “You’re not here half the time and you’re always – I worry when I can’t find you because I think you’re going to be gone.”

Merlin’s face contorted with childish rage, his eyes going narrow. “I’m not _leaving_.”

“Then _stop acting like you are!_ ” Arthur said, and he hadn’t meant to shout it, but just the thought of it, the thought of Merlin not being there to get him into his armor – even as he yammered on about not being Arthur’s servant anymore though they both knew that Merlin would never let anyone else help Arthur into his armor – just the thought of someone else dabbing poultice onto his wounds even if Merlin had no medical training because he’d not actually bothered to learn anything from Gaius – at some point Merlin had become part of Arthur like Camelot was a part of him and he wouldn’t miss Merlin if he left so much as be utterly lost.

“You’re never around, I haven’t seen you for _three days_ , and then it took me an hour to find you today and that was only because – and don’t think I’ve forgotten – you’ve misplaced by chambers. It’s as if you’re erasing yourself and you think I won’t notice!”

Merlin smiled harshly at some point on Arthur’s chest. “It isn’t – it isn’t right, Arthur. Camelot loves you; _Albion_ loves you. She wants you as her king, her ruler. They want a kind, just king. And I’m – I’m a bit magic,” he said, ducking his head like it was years ago and just breathing the word _magic_ meant death. “I’m a sorcerer and people will talk – they _do_ talk. They’ll think I’m exerting—”

Arthur stared at him helplessly because— “I’ve never heard—”

“You will,” said Merlin gently. “You can’t lift the ban on magic and expect people to embrace it after years of being told that all magic is evil.” And there it was again, that persistent _you_ that was never _we_ and Arthur hadn’t cried for years, not when Uther had been entombed, not when Morgana had drowned, a natural death for a distinctly unnatural girl. But now he felt a thick sob in the back of his throat because Merlin could deny it all he liked but he was already half gone.

“And that’s why—”

“That’s why you have to let me do these things,” Merlin said patiently. “This – it’s beneath you. And this is good, because if we see each other less, then the people won’t think I’m manipulating you but I have to stay here, just a bit farther away, so I can – it’s my destiny, Arthur, _you_ are. And yours is mine.” And he looked shy, which was unimaginable because only three weeks ago Merlin had whispered shamelessly filthy things into the inside of Arthur’s thigh without even blushing.

Arthur studied the way Merlin’s hair fell across his forehead, the absentminded way Merlin brushed it back every three minutes. And this was what kingship was like, and his father had always told him that kingship was lonely, but he hadn’t thought it would be like this. He’d had Merlin and Gwen and he loved them both fiercely and he’d never thought he’d lose them because they were so dear, because they were _his_. But he’d lost Gwen years ago and it was hard but it was all right but Merlin – no.

“No,” said Arthur flatly. “I don’t care how many books on politics you’ve read. If your destiny is mine, then you’re meant to be at my side, not watching from a distance and shouting out a hello every couple of months.”

Merlin was starting to look annoyed, as if Arthur was the one pushing them apart. “You’re the _king_ ,” Merlin said, as if possibly Arthur had missed his own coronation. “And I’m a _sorcerer_.”

“No,” Arthur said again, confident and pleased with his new favorite word. He dragged Merlin close, thumb hooking into the neck of Merlin’s robes, and he didn’t care about Merlin’s rationalizations or what he’d read in his books. Nothing felt right without Merlin and destiny was written out in the stars or trees or whatever, not in archaic texts with bizarre symbols. And _this_ felt right so it had to be destiny. It felt right to kiss the frowning edge of Merlin’s mouth, the flutter of his pulse in his neck. “No,” Arthur said, “no. You’re Merlin,” and it wasn’t eloquent, not with the need to taste after having been deprived for a week. And Arthur was never very eloquent when it came to this sort of thing anyway, but then Merlin was kissing back and Arthur thought he’d done all right because Merlin opened to him like a flower unfurling in spring, sweet and perfect.

“It’s all going to go so badly,” Merlin complained after a few minutes, because he’d mastered the skill of complaining while Arthur was kissing him a few years ago.

“Probably,” Arthur agreed, but for right now, this felt right and everything was going to go badly anyway, earlier than Merlin was talking about because Alwyn was going to march on Camelot, sure as the sun would rise in the east tomorrow, and no matter what, people would die.

“I made the wrong decision,” Arthur said unsteadily, because suddenly the image of bloodstained fields was stuck in his head, of corpses gone to decay, of armor splattered with rusty blood. Because his destiny wasn’t a grand thing of honor and gold; it was blood upon blood, and that was what Albion was built on: earth clotted thick with blood.

“Perhaps,” Merlin said into Arthur’s skin, “they’re both wrong.”

Arthur swallowed and held Merlin a little tighter because soon – too soon – he’d have to let go. “Killing Alwyn isn’t – honorable.” And it was such an inadequate word, but it wasn’t honorable. It wasn’t honorable to kill people because of maybes and perhapses. And if Albion was to be just and good and strong, then Arthur had to be just and good and strong, and he had to shoulder Albion’s burdens, had to be the one to suffer through nightmares of good men falling on the battlefields so that Albion could survive, flourish.

“No,” Merlin allowed.

“And you don’t know,” Arthur said, pressing his forehead into Merlin’s shoulder. “You don’t know who – or if anyone—”

“No,” Merlin said again, softer, and he didn’t tell Arthur that he was being naïve.

Arthur kissed the sensitive spot under Merlin’s ear, drank him in like he was starving. He felt a hysterical urge to demand that Merlin make an oath of fealty to him, to bend down and swear that he’d never leave Arthur’s side but Merlin had already given so much, had killed and been willing to kill, had saved him dozens of times, and he couldn’t. Arthur didn’t have the right.

And anyway, for all of Merlin’s fierce loyalty, for all his undiluted adoration, he didn’t think Merlin would be able to keep that oath. Merlin would leave one day because destiny was a tricky thing and it didn’t matter if they wanted to be here, together; Merlin’s path would go on where Arthur’s ended and – all Arthur could do was clutch Merlin tighter and pray that moment would be a long time in coming.

“Hey,” said Merlin, breath stuttering against Arthur’s jaw. “It’s all right, Arthur. It’s all right.”

It wasn’t all right, not when Arthur had just condemned people to die, not when Merlin was fading, not when all Arthur had was a glorious and lonely throne that was so high he was sure to tumble off, shatter into thousands of pieces. Except, in these stolen moments – fewer and fewer these days – he could shut his eyes and pretend.

“Stay with me tonight,” he said, and three years ago it really would’ve been an order, but three years ago Merlin would’ve been there every day, stumbling over his own feet and dropping Arthur’s sword, as sure as the sun and the moon and the stars. Today it was a plea because he didn’t want to wake up to sheets that were cold with Merlin’s absence.

Merlin smiled fondly, brushed his fingers across Arthur’s cheek. “Of course,” he said. “Besides, it’s clear that your manservant is failing you; you’ll recall that your chambers never went missing when _I_ was serving you.”

“Are you offering to serve me again, then?” Arthur asked lightly.

Merlin bowed his head a bit in the way that Arthur thought he should’ve liked, should’ve accepted as his due, but all it did was fluster him because the adoration in Merlin’s voice was overwhelming and undeserved, even if he cherished the memory at night and promised himself he’d be a good king and a good man for Merlin, if nothing else. “I’ve always served you, Arthur.”

He kissed Arthur’s palm, chaste and quick, and then said cheerily, “Come on, then,” and Arthur followed because he’d follow Merlin as long as he could, because there would be a time where he wouldn’t be able to follow Merlin, a time where Arthur would fall apart.

And they really weren’t supposed to be walking so close together, their wrists bumping painfully and Merlin’s sharp elbow digging into his side, and Arthur _really_ wasn’t supposed to shove Merlin up against the wall outside his newly found chambers – which had suspiciously ended up down the hall from Merlin’s chambers – and kiss him until the air was chased out of his lungs.

But the servants tended to look the other way when it came to Arthur and his sorcerer, to Merlin and his king, and probably Merlin was right. One day Camelot would tear at the seams if they kept on like this. One day Merlin would have to leave even if he swore he never would, because otherwise it would just be them, Merlin and Arthur, left to watch Camelot burn.

But today there was just this, and kissing Merlin was like breathing the sweetest air, and touching him was like mapping out new worlds, and so if Arthur held on to Merlin’s wrist tight enough to bruise, kissed him with too many teeth – well, Merlin didn’t say anything.

*


End file.
